"Too bad flowers don't like motorcycles." I reached a new low when I texted those words. I've never asked my husband for flowers before. To do so robs much of the romanticism from the act. But the thought crossed my mind that him walking in with something colorful and cheery was what I needed, and since 14 years of marriage have taught me that trying to send him mental messages doesn't work and hoping he will read my mind doesn't either, maybe I'd just ask until .... oh yeah .... flowers don't look quite the same after they ride home on the back of a bike. Sigh. Maybe I'll hint anyway.
Yesterday I heard the still, small voice whispering, calling me to come spend some time at His feet. Reminding me that I hadn't really slipped away with Him for a while, hadn't soaked in His Word near enough. I heard the urging all day. And I assured myself that I would ... as soon as this sink of dishes was clean and after that part of dinner was prepped. And then a doctor appointment and trip to the pharmacy plopped themselves into my morning and kids needed to be fed and dog hair needed to be vacuumed and somehow today arrived and that little communion never took place.
And now another kid is in bed crying in feverish sleep and I've lost count of what week in a row this is that someone has been sick and I'm looking for a rock to crawl under or a beach to escape to. Surely someone else can be me for a while and I can run away. Surely? No? Then maybe I can settle for flowers? At this point I'd even take motorcycle-wind-blown ones.
And then it occurs to me. The irony removes the lump in my throat and I shake my head and smirk. How like God. That He would invite me to dwell on His Rock yesterday knowing what today would hold. That had I obeyed, I wouldn't be looking for a rock to crawl under because I would already be anchored in the Rock.
The still small voice whispers again. The invitation is still open, the Host still waiting, offering something better than flowers.